


If

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've laughed about this before. They're not laughing now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/bridge2sickbay/profile)[**bridge2sickbay**](http://community.livejournal.com/bridge2sickbay/) prompt: Kirk/McCoy - Kirk: "There are times, Mr. Spock, when I think I should have been a librarian." Spock: "The job of librarian would be no less challenging, captain, but it would undoubtedly be a lot less dangerous." this got a little long (and so went over the time limit) and wandered a little from the prompt so posting here instead.

Jim's said it before. Spock always answers the same. Librarian. Danger. Challenge. If they're really crazy, references to paper cuts and hypos get made. He laughs, Spock laughs (okay, Spock twitches an eyebrow in the general direction that one, with the ship's sensors on max and Chekov out on the saucer section with a pair of binoculars, _might_ find laughter) and they go about their business.

Except they're not laughing now. He's not. Spock's not. Bones -- yeah, Bones isn't laughing either.

Jim is sitting on the floor. Spock, as always, stands ramrod straight at his side. They're both staring at Sickbay doors.

On the other side of those doors --

Jim shuts his eyes. All those times they've joked, they were laughing about _him_. It was never supposed to be Bones. Never. Bones gripes, grumbles, lives in hope of getting the last word, and is always, _always_ there to save their asses.

_My god, Jim, I'm beginning to think I could cure the common cold._

If anyone could...

"We need Bones," Jim mutters. He huffs a laugh. "We need Bones working on Bones." He opens his eyes. His hands are right where he left them. Draped over his knees and still covered in blood. Bones' blood.

Spock's boots shift a fraction. He's looking down. "Doctor M'Benga is a highly skilled surgeon and I can think of no better surgical nurse to assist him than Christine Chapel. They will not allow him to -- " He stops abruptly. So abruptly that Jim can still hear the unspoken word hanging in the air between them.

"Die."

Raising his hand, Jim looks at it. He can still feel the heat of Bones beneath his palm, blood seeping against his skin with every beat of his heart, listening to the silence where the litany of complaints should be and waiting for Bones to open his eyes.

"He is not going to die, Jim. Doctor M'Benga was quite clear on the possibilities of the doctor's recovery." Spock hesitates then adds, with more than a suggestion of amusement, "At any rate, it is highly unlikely that the doctor would die and leave us without appropriate supervision. He has always insisted that to leave you and I to our own devices would indeed be inviting peril on a galactic scale." He sounds almost annoyed. "I have always found that implication to be quite insulting. Might I remind you both that I -- "

Jim snorts. "Finish that sentence, Spock, and Bones'll have your ass." He still doesn't look up. Barely takes his eyes off the door long enough to blink, but that's beside the point. He doesn't need to see Spock's face to know the eyebrow's headed for the hairline. It's like gravity. Drop a hammer on a positive gravity planet and nail yourself in the fucking foot.

"I do not believe, Jim, that it is _my_ ass the doctor has expressed interest in." Spock finally slides down to sit beside him. Jim's surprised by that. Hadn't thought Vulcan dignity would let him do something so base as sit on a corridor floor, but Spock seems fine with it though, so, y'know, whatever. "Nor spends undo amount of time examining. I have observe, as of late, that Doctor McCoy's efficiency -- "

"Spock?"

"Yes, Jim?"

"I know you're trying to distract me, so I'm going on the assumption that pretty much everything coming out of your mouth right now is complete and total bullshit," though, god, he hopes not, "which means that you have _not_ actually computed the amount of time Bones spends staring at my ass and how it affects his productivity, correct?"

Spock surveys him. The eyebrow doesn't move, but Jim has a feeling the effort it's taking to resist the urge is absofuckinglutely _herculean_.

"Correct, Captain," he says in that 'I am a Vulcan, Vulcans are not pissy, fuck you very much' way he does. "However, if you believe that he is spending nearly a quarter of his shift on the bridge to admire the view, then perhaps you might do well to schedule a session with Dr. Dehner."

Slumping against the wall, Jim tries to smile. "Did you just tell me I'm out of my damn mind?"

Spock almost shrugs. Really. Jim's sure he saw a muscle think about twitching. "Your phrasing is more suited to the doctor, but in effect, yes."

That does it. Jim actually manages a real laugh. "Great. All it took to get you two agreeing was a near death experience. Next time -- " he shuts up as the doors part and he's on his feet in an instant.

M'Benga appears, not Chris, and Jim's heart stops for the half-second (like fuck, try a goddamn eternity) it takes for the man to smile and he starts gearing himself up for that fucking call home. Then there's that grin of M'Benga's, bright, sunny, and so goddamn cheerful Jim would punch him if he weren't so relieved. "Five minutes."

He doesn't try to say anything else. There's no point in saying that either. Jim's already by him before the words are out and, besides, he doesn't listen anyway.

When his ass hits the chair by Bones' bed, his palm laid flat over Bones' heart, there's no moving him and everybody knows it.

At least not until he and Bones've had a little chat about asses and efficiency - namely a whole hell a lot of wasted time.


End file.
